


Somewhere We'll Find Happiness

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU post season 5, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam comes back, Dean starts living again. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 25/05/2010]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere We'll Find Happiness

Dean's life is hell.

He goes through the motions every day. Gets up, pretends he is fine, works on his car, spends time with Lisa and Ben, and goes back to bed at the end of the day. In a way, it's worse than hell, even. In hell there was pain, but at least he was feeling something. But now, with Sam gone, the pain ebbed away after the initial shock and was replaced by numbness. It's like there's this big, gaping hole where Sam used to be and now that he's not there anymore, Dean can't fill it with anything else. He doesn't even try. Sam is gone and most days, it's like Dean died with him.

He exists, but he's not living.

Until Sam comes back.

+

Some nights, Dean drives the Impala outside of the city. He parks on some deserted field, sits on top of the hood and just stares out into nothingness. Sometimes, if he stares hard enough to forget the world around him, he can almost pretend Sam is there with him. Can almost feel Sam sitting next to him, radiating heat and taking up too much space, can almost hear Sam's steady breathing and the soft rustle of clothes when he moves.

Every once in a while, he turns his head to say something to Sam – mundane things, like _wanna grab a couple of beers from the cooler_ or _I think we should head somewhere south next. Somewhere warmer_ – only to find he's alone. To be reminded of the fact that it's just him now.

Except one night, when he turns, his mouth already opening to ask Sam if the shape of the tree at the other end of the field looks like a Wendigo to him, too, there's a dark figure standing next to the car.

Dean startles, almost sliding off the hood and reaches for the knife in his jacket.

"Dean," the figure says, in _Sam's voice_ , and Dean stops breathing for a moment.

He's Sam's height, has Sam's broad shoulders and skinny waist. Sam's floppy hair and face and _everything_. 

And although Dean wants nothing more than to reach out, close the distance between them, and pull Sam close, he's still hunter and he's learned to never trust his eyes. Living in the suburbs for a few short weeks – or maybe months, because Dean can't remember, it's just one day blurring into the next - pretending to be normal, hasn't changed that one bit. He gets up slowly, holds the knife between them.

"You're – _Sam_ 's dead," he says. It's the first time he's said it out loud and it makes his stomach ache and his heart constrict.

Sam, or whatever the thing is, holds up his hands, showing he's weaponless, and doesn't move. Not towards Dean, not away from him. "I was. And then I wasn't -- heaven's reward or something, I guess."

Dean cocks his head to the side, glaring. "And what, you think I'll believe you? Just like that?"

Sam chuckles softly, a little strained. "No. I know you better than that. Let me prove it. I bet you still got holy water in the trunk?"

Dean hesitates for a second and then nods curtly. "Stay where you are," he says, moving backwards, still facing Sam and the knife still raised high. His heart is beating faster, his hands a little slippery with sweat and he grips the shaft of the knife more tightly. He can't do anything against the hope blooming up inside of him. Or the part of him that doesn't care if it's not Sam, because it looks him and talks him and Dean just wants his brother back.

Sam watches his calmly as Dean gets a flask of holy water from the car, staying still. Dean holds it out to him. 

"Drink it," he orders. "All of it."

Sam shrugs, takes it and downs the whole thing under Dean's watchful gaze. He doesn't even flinch. When he lowers the flask, he stays where he is and gives Dean a small smile.

"Okay, knife next, right?" he says, holding out his hand.

Dean snorts. "I'm not giving you a weapon."

Sam shrugs. "Fine. Do it yourself then," he says and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, baring his forearm.

Dean halts, looking at the pale skin in the moonlight. He's too far away still to cut Sam -and oh god, what if it really is Sam? His Sam? His little brother who he thought was dead and would never see again? - and he's going to have to touch him to do this. 

"Dean," Sam says, voice low and sincere. "I don't wanna stand here all night. Get it over with."

"You're not calling the shots here," Dean snaps but takes a step closer and lifts his knife to Sam's arm. He makes one shallow, quick cut across the skin, watches blood bubble up and a dark drop slides down Sam's arm.

"This proof enough for you?"

Dean grinds his teeth together, jaw set. "Proves you're not a demon or shape shifter. But it doesn't prove you're my brother."

Sam gives him a look that's half exasperation and half amusement. "What else do you want me to do to prove it?"

Dean thinks that over and then gives Sam a hard look. "First hunt dad let you go on?"

"A ghost in Medina. I was nine. The freaking thing wasn't even really hurting people, just causing mischief, and you still wouldn't let me move more than half a feet away from you the whole time. I think you were more scared than I was."

"You never know when a ghost starts getting violent, especially towards the people trying to burn its bones, Sammy," Dean bites back, and he has to remind himself that this might not even be Sam. It might not, but in his heart, he knows differently. "Who'd you lose your virginity to?"

"Dakota Thompson."

"And it sucked," Dean says, a smirk tugging at his lips, but his voice breaks a little. His heart is beating out of his chest and Sam is grinning at him. Sam.

Sam's smile softens. "And it sucked," he agrees.

"When'd I teach you how to swim?" Dean asks, and god, they both know it's just for show now.

Sam's expression morphs into annoyance just like Dean knew it would. "Dean, throwing someone into a lake isn't teaching them how to swim," he bitches, and Dean laughs. He laughs because he knows if he didn't, he'd start sobbing. 

The tension and adrenaline leave his body in a rush and when he stops laughing, he sags against the car. 

"Dean," Sam says, sounding hesitant. He closes the gap between them and leans against the hood of the car next to Dean, his body close enough that they're almost touching. 

"This is real," Dean says.

"Yeah."

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, feels his eyes burn. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again, Sammy," he whispers, tears blurring his vision and he stares ahead into the darkness, like he has for so many nights.

Sam grabs his hand then, warm and sure and when Dean turns his head, Sam's still there.

+

"There's a hunt in Mississippi," Sam says when the waitress has brought them their coffee and left again.

Dean's hands a shaking a little as he picks up his cup, brings it to his lips and breathes in the strong, bitter scent. It's like a dream, having Sam sitting across from him. He looks the same – same hair, same eyes, same smile, but there's something different about him. If Dean didn't know better, he'd say Sam is calmer, at peace. But Dean's been to hell, he knows what it's like and what it does to a person, and he doubts Sam is feeling much at peace right now.

"Okay," he says slowly.

"I'm not here to ask you to come along," Sam says, a little more tense suddenly. "I don't want you to leave all this behind."

"All this."

Sam sighs. "I was watching you," he admits. "You have a good life here, Dean."

"You were watching me, huh? For how long?" Dean asks, voice harsh.

"Couple of weeks."

"And you didn't think you should let me know you're here? That you're alive?"

"I just wanted to see how you're doing, Dean. _What_ you're doing. I needed to make sure--," Sam halts. "I just wanted to check up on you before I actually talked to you."

Dean chuckles harshly. "And what did you see, huh?"

Sam shrugs. "You can have a good life here."

Dean looks away from Sam, outside the window of the small 24/7 diner they're sitting in. He thinks of the nights he's lain awake, feeling like he was suffocating, like he was dying and just wanting to shut his eyes and forget about everything for a little while, but knowing he'd only dream of Sam. Of Sam being in hell, tortured the way Dean was. He thinks of the days he's wandered around aimlessly, because that's what his life was like without Sam; aimless. 

"Whatever you saw, it's not what I'd call a good life."

"Dean, you can have a family here. A normal life."

Dean wants to say he doesn't want that, but he can't lie to Sam. Never has been able to. Of course, he wants a family. He wants to wake up every day with people he loves, knowing they're save and happy, and he wants to not feel scared and hurt. 

"I don't think I can do normal," Dean says. "Not after everything."

"You deserve it."

Dean shrugs, not meeting Sam's eyes and take another sip of his coffee. "So, the hunt?" he says, changing the topic and Sam sighs.

"Three deaths. All of them teachers, so it's safe to say that's the connection. Probably a ghost, I think," Sam explains. "It's nothing big."

"But? There's obviously a reason why you came here first," Dean says, and he sounds a little bitter but he can't help himself. Sam doesn't want him to hunt with him, but he wants something.

"I came back in nothing but the clothes I was wearing. I hustled some pool, bought a couple of shirts and underwear and I'm paying for a motel room with it, but…I need some stuff. My stuff. Clothes, weapons, my fake IDs. I can get a car from Bobby, I guess. Once I explain to him that I'm not, you know, dead."

Dean wraps both hands around his cup, feeling the warmth seep into his hands. "So you wanna get your things and then you're gone again?"

"Dean," Sam says in a soft voice, sounding pained. "I just want you to be happy."

Dean looks back up to Sam, glaring. "Funny way of showing it."

Sam swallows, running his hands over his face. "I do. More than anything."

"Then I'm coming with you," Dean says and when Sam opens his mouth to say something, he holds up a hand. "Stuff it. You think I'm happy here? You think I'm happy in a house, doing nothing all day, when I know there are people dying out there and I could save them but I'm not? You think I'm happy when you're--you're not a part of my life? When you're out there and I'm not with you?"

"Can you honestly say you'd rather spend your whole life hunting with me than with a pretty girl?" Sam says with a snort, his voice a little lighter, like he's trying to sound teasing.

"Yes," Dean says.

Sam looks a little startled at that, his eyes widening before his whole demeanor changes, his shoulders slumping and Dean swears Sam looks like he's ready to cry. "Oh," he says.

"You're such an idiot, Sammy," Dean replies, voice fond and he kicks Sam under the table. "Come on, finish your coffee. We need to get on the road, right?"

"Are you sure?"

Dean glares at Sam and Sam gives him a sheepish smile and shrugs his shoulders.

+

They make the drive to Mississippi in a day, music blaring loud and silence between them. Dean wants to say something, ask questions, but he can't bring himself to bring up any of it – hell, angels, Lucifer – so he says nothing at all.

Sam doesn't seem to mind. He's relaxed, sprawled out in the car as much as the space allows, and reading through a stack of papers he's printed out. Dean saying goodbye to Lisa – which was oddly painless, Lisa not seeming too surprised – seemed to make him more comfortable, make him believe Dean actually wanted to leave, wants to be with him. And with every mile they get between them and Cicero, Sam's mood improves.

Dean keeps glancing over at Sam, something tugging at his heart each time. Sam is back, next to him, alive and all right and Dean didn't think he'd ever feel this happy again.

They reach Tupelo in the early evening, get some food and find a motel outside of the city.

For the first time in weeks, Dean sleeps through the night.

+

The hunt itself is easy. They spend one day interviewing friends and relatives of the dead, and research strange deaths in the area. It's familiar, sitting in a motel room with Sam and going from door to door with him, flashing false badges and false smiles.

By day two, they've figured out who the ghost is. Andrea Martin, whose husband cheated on her with their daughter's math teacher. Three months after catching them in the act, she died in a car crash. The first victim was the math teacher. The second an American history teacher who was cheating on her husband with a student's father. The third a coach who was sleeping around with a cheerleader behind his girlfriend's back.

They dig up Andrea Martin's corpse that night, salt and burn it, and leave the state.

+

Sam has nightmares. They're not like Dean's were – Dean's dreams were violent, bloody, full of pain and torture and they left him shaking. Sam's are different. Almost every night Dean is woken up by Sam starting to move around in his sleep, but he always wakes up before it gets bad, gets a glass of water from the bathroom and goes back to bed. Dean stays awake, listening to Sam's breathing – steady, but loud enough for Dean to know he's not asleep – until it lulls him back to sleep.

"What're they about?" Dean asks one night into the darkness. He hears the sudden rustling from the bed next to his, springs squeaking as Sam moves.

"Dean?" Sam asks. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Yeah," Dean says and then, when Sam doesn't say anything, he repeats his question. "What are your dreams about?"

"Lots of things."

"Hell?" Dean asks and holds his breath, not sure if he even wants to know the answer. If he really wants to know what Sam went through.

"Sometimes," Sam admits, voice soft. He sounds young, like the kid he used to be, who'd come to Dean whenever he was scared, knowing Dean would take care of him.

Dean slips out of his bed without thinking about it and crawls in with Sam. It's a tight fit, the bed not exactly made for two people, especially if one is Sam's size.

Sam chuckles. "Dean? What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Dean replies curtly and carefully gets comfortable next to Sam, his chest pressed to Sam's back. "Shut up."

Sam laughs again. "Night, Dean," he says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

+

Dean wakes up curled around Sam, bodies slotted together and his arm thrown over Sam's waist.

Sam's already awake, his fingers drawing small circles on Dean's wrist and Dean thinks this should be awkward. It's not. It's comforting because it's Sam - home, safety, love. The last time they did this, they were both still kids and now, after a night wrapped around Sam, Dean realizes how much he missed it. Missed having Sam this close, a physical reminder that he was okay.

"It wasn't long," Sam says into their silence after a while, turning around in Dean's arms awkwardly until they're facing each other.

"What wasn't long?"

"The time I was, you know, in the pit. It wasn't that long. I got out pretty quickly."

"Doesn't mean it wasn't bad," Dean says softly, watching Sam's face, and feels a lump form in his throat.

"I knew that you were safe. Alive. That the whole thing was finally over. It made it easier to deal with," Sam replies and then smiles. "I don't regret it, Dean."

 _I do_ , Dean thinks. "I'm sorry."

Sam gives him a puzzled look. "For what?"

Dean laughs dryly. There's a whole list of things he's sorry for. For not getting Sam out, for not being happy even when it was what Sam wanted for him (and god, he'd done what Sam asked him to, but he didn't actually try to be happy, knew it he couldn't be anyway - not without Sam). He's sorry for not trusting Sam enough, for getting him from Stanford and dragging him back into this life. For not being able to save Sam, no matter how hard he tried all his life, because in the end, Dean had failed and Sam was the one who'd saved himself. "For everything."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Sam says, sounding so sincere it feels like absolution. "I'm sorry, too. For a lot of things, Dean."

Dean smiles. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Sammy," he echoes Sam's words and Sam grins.

"You think?" he asks, and just like that, the mood shifts. Lightens.

"Yeah, I think."

Sam makes a soft, humming noise, looking thoughtful and playful at the same time and then he cups Dean's face and kisses him. Dean freezes for a second, Sam's lips warm and soft pressed to his and his thumb rubbing gently over Dean's cheekbone.

There's no way _this_ couldn't be awkward.

"Dean," Sam breathes against his mouth, his kiss getting more insistent, and Dean parts his lips and lets Sam's tongue slide in. 

Their tongues tangle together in Dean's mouth, wet and hot and Dean presses his eyes closed, a shiver running down his spine.

Sam pulls away after a minute and Dean makes a protesting noise in the back of his throat before he can stop himself. 

"Do I have something to be sorry for now?" Sam asks, a small, unsure grin on his face, and Dean pulls him back in, crashing their lips together.

+

Things are different after that. Dean snorts whenever the thought crosses his mind, because how could things possibly be the same after spending a morning making out with Sam?

But things are better. Not easier – there's still hunting and they argue over what to eat, what music to play, where to go next. But Dean feels lighter, happier.

And yeah, orgasms. Regular orgasms are awesome – Dean's always known this, but having them with the person you love more than anything, any time of day or night, definitely trumps going out and having to find some stranger to hook up with.

It doesn't hurt that Sam has big, strong hands that know just how to stroke Dean to get him off and that Sam apparently likes giving blowjobs – and is good at it. And god, Dean's always liked kissing, but he thinks he could just spend the rest of his life lying in bed with Sam, kissing him, and die happy.

+

"Okay," Dean says, smiling at the leaving waitress before taking a sip of his just refilled coffee. "What is it gonna be? Possible demon in Farmington, vengeful spirit in Evanston that isn't really doing much harm, so I think it's not urgent, or what could be a werewolf just outside Rochester? And god, where are all these things coming from suddenly?"

"I don't care," Sam replies with a shrug.

"I think the werewolf might be worth checking out," Dean suggests, picking up his napkin and wiping his mouth that's still sticky with the syrup from his pancakes.

"Dean," Sam says, the word drawn out and he looks a little pissed.

"What?"

"The napkin had her number on it. You sure you don't wanna be more careful with it and give her a call later?"

Dean frowns, glances at the napkin and back at Sam. "What?" he repeats.

"The waitress? Who was obviously flirting with you? She was just your type, all innocent smile and big boobs."

"First off, despite what you might think, I actually never cared about the size of boobs. It's more the whole package that has to be right," Dean says. "And second, what’s wrong with you? Why the hell would you want me to hook up with someone else?"

"Don't you want to?" Sam asks, jaw clenched, not meeting Dean's eyes. 

"Do you plan on not putting out anymore and go back to us not being, you know, whatever we are?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. Just -- I thought maybe you'd want--"

"Well, I don't," Dean replies, like it should be obvious. He thought it was, the way he hasn't really looked at, much less touched, anyone but Sam in weeks. 

Sam relaxes, looking relieved, and gives Dean a sheepish, small smile. "Okay."

"Do you want to?" Dean asks.

"No."

Dean nods, giving Sam one last reproachful look. "Good," he says. "How'd you ever get into college, moron?"

+

They make it halfway to Rochester that day, stopping somewhere in Missouri. The motel is crappy: the wallpaper's peeling off, the window doesn't open more than a couple of inches and there's nothing around for miles, but it's two beds and a bathroom and that's all that they need.

Dean joins Sam in the bathroom while Sam is under the shower, shucking his clothes on the way.

Sam yelps when Dean draws back the shower curtain and Dean laughs. "You scream like a girl," he teases.

"Shut up, jerk. I didn't exactly expect anyone to join me in the shower," Sam grumbles but moves aside to make room for Dean.

"Wouldn't want to become predictable," Dean murmurs.

He slips his hands around Sam's waist and presses a couple of kisses to Sam's shoulder. The water pelts down on him, hot and just the right pressure, making his hair stick to his forehead. He slides his hands over Sam's stomach, slick with water, and feels the muscles under his palms. He circles Sam's navel with a finger, feels and hears Sam suck in a breath, and moves lower. 

Sam leans back into Dean, sighing contently. "Don't think there's enough room in here," he says, voice cracking.

Dean kisses Sam's neck, biting the flesh where his neck and shoulder meet. "Hmm," he hums, non-committal, and wraps one hand around Sam's cock, half hard already.

"Dean," Sam groans and Dean starts stroking him. His own dick is growing hard, nestled against Sam's thigh.

"Dean, seriously, you need to stop."

"Why?" Dean asks, sucking a hickey into Sam's skin. Sam's gonna bitch about it tomorrow, but Dean doesn't care. 

"Tiles are slippery," Sam says with a moan, thrusting into Dean's hand and Dean smirks. "We're gonna slip and crack out heads open."

"Let's take this to the bed then," he suggests, slowing down his strokes.

"I haven't even gotten around to washing my hair yet," Sam protests.

Dean reaches to turn off the water. "We'll need another shower later anyway," he says playfully. 

He steps out of the shower first, throwing a towel Sam's way before drying himself off quickly. He leaves the towel in the bathroom, not caring that his skin is still damp as he walks out and straight to the bed. 

Sam takes a few moments longer and Dean is already sitting on the bed when he comes out, grinning at Sam.

"Come here," he says, pulling Sam right on top of him once he's close enough. 

They tumble onto the sheets and Dean tugs Sam into a kiss. Sam's naked body is heavy on top of Dean's, pressing him down into the mattress, and he spreads his legs, letting Sam fall between them.

They lay like that for a while, kissing and grinding, hands sliding over naked skin. 

"Sam," Dean moans wetly when they pull apart. "God, I want."

"Want what?" Sam asks, trailing kisses down Dean's jaw. "Want me to blow you? Or like this? I could get you off like this, Dean, just from the way you're rubbing against me."

Sam thrusts against him hard, their cocks sliding together between them, and Dean digs his fingers into Sam's shoulders and holds on, arching up into him. It feels so freaking good, and shit, Dean knows that Sam could make him come like this, but he wants more. Wants to feel Sam everywhere. "Inside me. Want you inside me."

Sam halts, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at Dean and god, Dean makes a protesting noise, not wanting Sam to stop. 

"Are you sure, Dean?" Sam asks.

Dean groans. "I'm not gonna break, Sammy. When I say I want you to fuck me, I want you to fuck me."

"We've never done that."

"We've already waited too long then," Dean shoots back and arches up into Sam impatiently. "Come on."

Sam's lips twitch into a smile. "Okay. Hold your horses, man." He leans in and kisses Dean quickly. "Do you have stuff? Condom, lube."

"Bag."

"Okay," Sam says, pushing off Dean and getting up. 

Dean watches him hurry to their duffle bag, stark naked, and crouch down as he rummages around in it. He slides his hand between his legs, grabbing his dick, and starts stroking it.

"Dean," Sam says, half scolding and half moan, as he gets back up and meets Dean's eyes. 

"Well, come here and get going, Sammy," Dean replies teasingly. He doesn't stop fisting his cock until Sam crawls back onto the bed and swats his hand away. 

He uncaps the lube and Dean watches him slick up his fingers.

"You ever done this?" Sam asks, reaching between Dean's legs and sliding his fingers behind Dean's balls. They're cold and wet, and Dean lets out a startled moan before letting his legs fall apart further.

"Few times," he admits, watching Sam watching him with wide eyes as he presses fingers to Dean's hole. "Been a long time though."

"Oh," Sam says. Dean's not sure if it's in response to his words or to the feeling of his first finger sliding inside of Dean, and god, Sam's finger is long and it feels bigger than it actually is. Dean's forgotten this part, the slightly uncomfortable feeling of something first pushing inside him.

"You okay?" Sam asks, moving his finger tentatively.

Dean nods and reaches up for Sam. "Come here," he says, pulling Sam down.

"Okay," Sam whispers before their lips meet. It's better this way, having Sam kissing him while his finger slowly works him open and Dean fists his hands in Sam's hair, feeling the still damp strands between his fingers and holding him in place.

He gasps into Sam's mouth when Sam brushes against his prostate, feeling himself relax as pleasure replaces the discomfort.

Sam adds another finger, pushing it in alongside the first and it burns a little, but it's good. Dean rocks down on Sam's fingers, tangling his tongue with Sam's as Sam fingers him, scissoring and stretching and shit, that's _good_. 

By the time Sam has three fingers in him, Dean's body feels on fire and he just wants more. Wants Sam. Sweat is trickling down his temple, making his back stick to the sheets.

"Are you good?" Sam asks, pressing small kisses to Dean's neck. "Can I?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, you can."

Sam pulls of him, and Dean feels empty, his cock hard between their bodies. He watches Sam roll a condom down his cock through half-lidded eyes and spread more lube onto it.

"Okay," Sam mutters, giving Dean a nervous smile, as he hefts Dean's legs around his waist.

Dean grins back, covering one of Sam's hands with his for a moment. "Relax, Sammy."

Sam nods. "Yeah, okay," he says and leans down to kiss Dean once more. 

He lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Dean's hole and Dean licks his lips, moaning softly.

They lock eyes as Sam pushes into Dean, slow and steady, only halting once he's fully inside. Sam feels huge, the stretch of being filled burning, and Dean takes deep breaths, relaxing his body and giving Sam a reassuring smile.

"Give me a sec," he says, his hands fisted in the sheets. Sam's biting his lip, watching Dean intently, cheeks flushed and hair sticking to his forehead. He's beautiful. He's so beautiful it makes Dean's heart ache, and he's Dean's. His responsibility, his to love, his to take care of. Has been all their lives, even when Dean was too stubborn or too hurt to see it.

Dean gives Sam a nod, moving his hips experimentally and drawing a moan from Sam. 

"God," Sam groans out.

He pulls out of Dean and drives back in, slowly at first before picking up speed. Dean meets his thrusts, urging Sam on until Sam fucks him hard and fast, just the way Dean likes it, _needs_ it. 

Dean's whole body feels taut, strung too tight and ready to snap any moment and he bites his lip, arching into Sam, moaning and writhing and god, he can imagine the way he must look, spread out underneath Sam.

"Sammy," he gasps when he feels one of Sam's hands sneak between their bodies, wrap around his dick, sending sparks of pleasure through Dean's body. Sam's thrusts falter a little, the one arm he's holding himself up with shaking visibly.

"You have no idea how you good you feel," Sam says, voice cracking. "So tight and hot, Dean. Can't hold it much longer."

"Don't," Dean replies. 

"Want you to come first," Sam says, breathless. 

He leans down and catches Dean's lips in a wet kiss, their bodies pressing together and Dean wraps his arms around Sam automatically, holding him close. Sam's hand is trapped between them, barley able to move on Dean's dick, but god, Dean doesn't want to let him go. Sam smells like sweat and the soap he uses, and he's warm and heavy on top of Dean, pushing into Dean with hard, short thrusts and Dean digs his fingers into Sam's shoulders, coming hard.

Sam gasps against Dean's mouth, breaking their kiss. He keeps fucking Dean, moaning Dean's name and burying his face in Dean's neck. He bites down, and Dean gasps in surprise, his whole body tensing for a moment and he feels Sam fall apart then, panting into Dean's neck and pulsing inside of him.

They lie like that, sweat cooling on their bodies, twisted and wrapped together.

Dean's almost dozing off, feeling completely fucked out, and utterly happy, when Sam moves.

"Sam," Dean protests weakly, tightening his arms around Sam without thinking.

"I should pull out," Sam says and Dean lets him, letting go of Sam. "We need a shower."

"Later," Dean says, making a face as he shifts around on the sheets, trying to free them from beneath his body. "Sleep, first."

"'kay," Sam agrees, helping him with the sheets. Dean pulls them over both of them, sliding his arm around Sam as Sam wraps his arm around Dean's waist and rests his head on Dean's shoulder.

+

Dean jerks awake when Sam kicks him in the shin. It's not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to rouse Dean. Sam is trashing around a little, making soft noises in his sleep, and Dean shakes his shoulder.

"Sammy," he says, voice gruff with sleep. "Hey, Sam, wake up."

"Wha'?" Sam stops moving around, tensing and then relaxing against Dean. "Dean?"

"Shh, it's okay. You had a nightmare."

"Sorry," Sam mumbles, shifting around in the bed, away from Dean. "Go back to sleep."

Dean ignores him and reaches for the lamp on the nightstand, switching it on. The sudden light is too bright in his eyes and he blinks, running a hand over his face before rolling to face Sam.

"Dean," Sam protests, looking at him tiredly. His hair is a tousled mess and there's dried come on both of their stomachs, the room smelling of stale sweat and sex.

"You wanna talk about it?" Dean asks. "You made me talk about all that shit."

Sam gives him a sad smile. "It's not just that. Not just hell. It's--"

"What?" Dean presses. "Come, man, you can't bottle all of that crap up forever."

"You," Sam says. "Sometimes it's mom or dad or Bobby, but mostly you're in those dreams. Dying. Or just not--there."

"I'm right here, Sam," Dean says softly, cupping Sam's face with his hand and drawing Sam in for a soft kiss. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," Sam says. "I don't know why I'm having these dreams. I guess hell just, it--"

"It messes you up," Dean finishes, giving Sam a sad smile. "It gets better."

"Yeah. And it's nothing I can't handle. Small price to pay, really."

Dean doesn't reply, not sure what to say to that. They saved the world, and it was worth it, but most days, that doesn't change the unfairness of everything. They had to go through so much, life throwing them one curve after the other, and sometimes, Dean wishes it was someone else. That it wasn't them who had to carry all this weight, all this responsibility. 

Sam pulls him close again, bringing their lips together in another kiss. "Let's go to sleep, Dean," he says and Dean meets his eyes, pressing their foreheads together for a moment before rolling around to turn of the light.

Most days, he wishes he could have offered Sam a different life.

+

Sam's thigh is pressed warmly against Dean's, the late afternoon sky shining down on them. They're sitting on the hood of the car, drinking beers and parked right at a lake. Money's a little tight and it was Sam who suggested they crash in the car for the night. Dean doesn't mind, even if the car is not the most comfortable place to sleep, but he likes not being in motel with other people around, likes that here it's just the two of them for miles and miles.

"I don't regret anything," Sam says suddenly, drawing Dean out of his thoughts.

"What?"

Sam looks down at his beer bottle, fingers peeling away at the label. "I know I said that I don't regret jumping into the cage and being in hell. But I don't regret _anything_ , Dean."

"Anything?" Dean replies with a snort.

"Yeah. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. About everything we've gone through and all the things that happened to us, and so much of it was bad, dude, I know that. But -- it got us here," Sam says, licking his lips. 

"Yeah," Dean agrees softly.

"And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," Sam says in a soft voice, but it sounds urgent and he's looking at Dean now, and Dean gets it. Everything they've gone through, it got them here, _together_ , and maybe that was worth all of it.

Dean leans towards Sam, knocking their shoulders together, and smiles. "Me neither," he says.


End file.
